Twin Talons of Konoha
by Sachira-sama
Summary: There are many things asked of them. There are many things expected of them. They fulfill each and every one of them. They do not fail. They do not run. They do not quit. They are Special Tactics and Assassinations members.They are the best. They are ANBU. They are brothers. They are the Talons of Konoha.


A shadow moved between a clove of trees, barely a flicker of movement coming from it. The lithe frame was clothed in a dark grey armor. The chest plate, made of a hard fabric capable of taking high-velocity projectiles, was strapped over the shoulders of the shadow's body, over a tight-fitting black shirt that came all the way up to the jaw line. The loose black pants, with cargo pockets on either side, were cinched over his left thigh with deep, burnt orange bandages. The ends of these pants were tied off with white bandages that led into black colored sandals that showed the ends of the shadow's individual toes.

The shadow's arms were covered by the black sleeves of the shirt he had on. On top of his forearms was a pair of dull grey armguards made of the same hardened material with a metal plate sewn into the middle.

In the small of his back was a double knife sheath that contained a tanto and a kaiken.

The kaiken was something the ANBU picked up in his travels. It was a small dagger eight to ten inches in length and tempered to near unbreakable strength. He used it exclusively, and with deadly efficiency, in his double knife defense when someone got lucky enough to get close to him. The kaiken moved down slightly as the Agent shifted his weight to move.

The specter flitted without a whisper between the trees with cat-like grace and agility, never breaking his silent, quick stride; the forest seeming to bend around him as he moved.

The muscular arms of the roughly five-foot nine-inch body were well toned, but not overly bulky. On one arm, the specter bore a tattoo of something. It was a mark that started a few inches down from the shoulder. Someone had placed a brush there and brought it down an inch before moving it into a small spiral. It was then picked up and set to the edge of the spiral, following it until the bottom. Then it was brought down an inch.

This was the mark of the elite. This was the mark of the shadow. The mark of the assassin. This was the mark of the Ansatsu Senjutsu Tokushu Butai. ANBU.

The man, for the muscular arms and loping gait could mark him as nothing else, crouched in the shadow of a large tree, unmoving. And he waited. That's what he was good at. Waiting, watching, analyzing, and then moving. Moving with purpose and intent.

As he crouched, hidden by the leaves of the forest, he pondered many things. He thought of his best friend, Mitsuhide. He thought about how he got to where he was now, the answer obviously the Old Man Sandaime Hokage. Many more memories came to the forefront of his thoughts, chief among them being his two brothers and how he got his bow. _'That's why I became ANBU,'_ he thought.

His childhood memories good, save one. The thought of _that _made his stomach churn. His eyes smoldered with an unquenchable rage. He couldn't help but wonder why it had to turn out like that. The Agent exhaled softly, his eyes returning to focus as the memory left.

There was a flash of motion at the bend in the road at least two hundred yards to the south that the ANBU's training caught, even while he was distracted.

A riding party cantered around the curb, bathed in the full moon light. The traveling men, five of them in fact, were riding with four men at four corners with one, their charge, in the middle.

Five riders. Five arrows. Five Deaths. That was it for the ANBU agent; cut, dry, and simple. Admittedly, the Agent didn't want to kill them, but orders were orders. Special Tactics and Assassination Squad or not, he still had to follow orders. Damn Shiro-Taicho and his laziness.

He shrugged off the annoyance. '_Whatever', _He thought_. 'I'm the best at what I do; that's why they sent me.'_

The man who moved as a phantom through shadows and trees sat motionless at the base of the tree, partially concealed by a shrub. Ten seconds passed. Thirty passed, and then a full minute. The trotting horses continued by as he counted silently in his head.

_Forty-eight…Forty-nine…Fifty…_This continued until he reached sixty and the horses were fifty yards away. He wanted to scoff at such a meager challenge, or lack thereof, to his skills.

He shook his head lightly, his soft blonde hair tossing his bangs across the top of his hardened porcelain mask.

The ostentatious thoughts leaving with the shake of his head prompted him to stand. As he stood, the phantom man withdrew an arrow from the soft leather quiver strapped across his back with little more than a whisper. The arrow was knocked to the flax string of his bow quickly, and he raised it to his cheek it one fluid motion.

The Agent's muscles in his back smoothly drew the bow without hesitation or strain and held it. He could have fired, but the first shot was a dry shot, so he figured he had an excuse.

The arrow leaped from the string as the man's fingers twitched out of the way. Two more took flight with their brother in half as many seconds, their feathered shafts flying silently through the air.

He watched in smug satisfaction as his projectiles flew true, as they always did, and embedded themselves in the spines of the two rear riders as well as the rider in the middle. Three thuds signified them falling from their mounts to the dirt road.

The first two guards, unscathed, wheeled their horses and drew their katana in one fluid motion as most ronin were known to do. A curse flew from the mouth of a dark haired man with an eye patch as he spotted the middle rider dead. The second guard, the one with marks under his eyes reminiscent of tear drops, tensed. The eye-patch guard began to curse again, but it turned to a gurgle as an arrow materialized in this chest.

Abruptly, the second guard with the marks wasn't tense anymore. Acupuncture will do that to a person; especially with a practitioner as skilled as the Agent.

The white masked marksman turned from his handiwork and left them alone as ordered. The muscles in his legs bunched as he leaped to the tree branches above and he raced off to the North-west toward _his_ village of the leaves. Toward _his_ home. This was _his _job. This was a shinobi's life. This was ANBU.


End file.
